Harley Davidson Lawyer Ch 01

No one under the age of 18 has sex in this story.

#

It finally sank into Deek's meth-soaked brain that he might have fucked up when the police officer forced the poor cornered drug addict to defend himself. He'd been so upset by the officer's belligerent attitude that he'd emptied the rest of the magazine in his Saturday Night Special in the cop's general direction. Fortunately, he'd only managed to hit the policeman once in his bulletproof vest. The SWAT team proceeded to beat the crap out of him despite his repeated protests that he had surrendered.

Deek's plan had been simple, and it had gone well at first. He cut the phone line to the pharmacist's house shortly after the man left for work. When he showed up at the door dressed in a phone company uniform, the wife had let him inside. He immediately tied her to a chair in the dining room. He found her four-year-old son and tied up the terrified boy in his bedroom.

The next part of the operation also went according to plan. Deek called the pharmacist and put the wife on for a moment to get the man's cooperation. He elicited a scream from the woman by ripping her nightgown open and was momentarily diverted by the sight of her plump bare breasts. The pharmacist interrupted Deek's lustful thoughts when the husband quickly agreed to the demand for money, drugs, and secrecy.

Deek wasn't sure when his simple plan fell apart. He blamed his failure on the pharmacist taking too much time. How fucking long does it take to get $10,000 in small bills and fill a bag with oxycontin? He'd gotten bored and became excited, staring at the middle-aged wife's bare breasts. They had to be at least DDs. No way they could be real. He wanted to feel them, but he was interrupted by cries from her damn son whining about being hungry. The woman claimed the boy had diabetes and begged to be allowed to feed him.

Deek had dragged her and her son into the kitchen to quiet the boy's crying. He freed the woman's hands so she could make sandwiches for everyone and thought he was careful when he left her feet bound. He'd been forced to shoot her when she came hopping at him with a nasty-looking chef's knife. He'd reluctantly killed the boy who had witnessed him defending himself against the traitorous bitch. That's when he heard the bullhorn calling for his surrender.

#

My name is Alyssa Sofia Stamford, and I'm smarter than you. I'm not bragging. It's just a fact. I've never met anyone more intelligent than I am. I had a 4.0 GPA in high school when I got my diploma at fifteen. I earned a perfect score on my SATs and was rewarded with a full scholarship to UCLA. I graduated from college just after my eighteenth birthday and got my law degree at twenty. Unfortunately, I wasn't one of the rich kids with family connections and considered myself lucky to find a job in the Los Angeles Public Defender's office. It seemed none of the big law firms wanted to hire a petite woman with light brown skin and big dark eyes who looked like she was fourteen and eagerly waiting for her quinceanera.

Ok, I'm only half Hispanic on my mother's side, but everyone says I look exactly like my namesake, aunt Sofia. I have her dark eyes and light brown skin. I'm a couple of inches taller than her at 5' 1,' but I weigh the same 108 pounds dripping wet.

My dear aunt Sofia was a descendant of Francisco Ávila, a wealthy Spanish ranchero and mayor of the pueblo of Los Angeles back in the early 1800s. When I was ten, my parents were killed by a drunk driver, and I was raised by the aunt I loved.

When I was twelve, I asked her for a pony for my birthday. My aunt laughed, and instead of giving me a pony, she enrolled me in jiu-jitsu. She said learning how to defend myself would be a more valuable skill for a tiny woman than knowing how to ride a horse.

I was twenty-one and had just finished law school when Sofia died proud and destitute. The house I had grown up in had a reverse mortgage she had used to pay my tuition. My only inheritance was a pair of large gold hoop earrings that I wear in court as a lucky charm.

I have two older brothers, one five years older and the other two years. My oldest brother, Michael, died in Afghanistan at the hands of a native soldier he was training to defend his country. My younger brother, Steve, lives in Pittsburgh with his wife and two small children. I love talking to him on the phone when he's free, which isn't often enough. Steve calls me Lyss. If I had any friends, that's the nickname I would prefer.

When I was very young, I loved to hang around with my brothers. Their friends found me annoying and called me by my initials to piss me off. My desire to be one of the boys ended one day when I joined their roughhousing. My sharp elbow accidentally bloodied a boy's nose. The next thing I knew, he pulled down my shorts and whipped my bare bottom with a supple birch branch he had been poking into an ant's nest. My brothers stopped him after a dozen blows. As I ran away crying, the bully yelled, "Hey ASS, run home to Momma, you stupid cry baby."

I learned from the experience. I decided I was going to outshine the assholes in school. I earned a series of perfect report cards, but I still had nightmares and paranoia about anything related to my ass.

#

No one in the Public Defender's office wanted anything to do with representing a vicious killer who was destined for death row. So, they gave Derek Grenhouser's case to me, the twenty-two-year-old newbie lawyer who was the only one who volunteered. I was eager to take on the high-profile case. I had nothing to lose and everything to gain in terms of building my reputation.

The Public Defender's office is a farce. The Constitution guarantees everyone the "assistance of counsel," and courts have ruled that this should be interpreted as the right to effective counsel. However, it is up to the defendant to prove their counsel was ineffective.

In reality, lawyers in the Las Angeles Public Defender's office carry a caseload of thirty to fifty cases. Typically, the first time you have a chance to review a case is when you are sitting in court waiting for the judge. It is often the first time you meet the defendant. Since your schedule would be a complete disaster if a case ever went to trial, the best you can do for your client is convince them to plead to a minor offense. Well, it's undoubtedly the best course of action for you and the prosecutor. Who has the time to worry about someone who is probably guilty of something if not with the crimes they're charged?

Since it was a capital murder case, and the DA was going for the death penalty, I was given a little more time to prepare than usual. It wasn't nearly enough, but it was enough time for me to discover that almost every piece of evidence had technically been contaminated.

I was puzzled by the report Deek had walked to the victims' house. How was he planning to make his getaway? There was no record of a motor vehicle in the list of items seized when the police searched his apartment building. I checked the DMV and found he had a 2011 Harley-Davidson Road King Classic registered in his name. There was one other Grenhouser listing in California. An 84-year-old Maggie Grenhouser lived just four blocks from the pharmacist's expensive home in the Hollywood Hills. Had he walked to the scene of the crime? Was the big Harley stashed at a relative's house? Maybe I could get his relative to contribute to Deek's meager defense fund.

I tried calling Maggie but got no response. After work, I drove to her home on Blue Heights Drive in the hills above Sunset Drive. I was amused to find she lived a couple of doors down from the cantilevered house used as the residence of Hieronymus Bosch in the TV series. I'd discovered the Bosch books years ago when I looked up the author of "The Lincoln Lawyer." It is one of my favorite books, and I dreamed about following in the eccentric lawyer's footsteps.

When I rang Maggie's doorbell, I was greeted by a woman who introduced herself as Clara, Mrs. Grenhouser's caregiver. Poor Maggie was resting on a couch overlooking a view that was every bit as spectacular as the one I remembered from the Harry Bosch show on TV. She didn't attempt to sit up. Her tired eyes fixed on me as if I were the death angel in disguise as an overly energetic pixie. The caregiver had said I had five minutes, and I got right to it.

"Maggie, I'm from the Public Defender's office. I'm representing Mr. Derek Grenhouser. Is he a relative of yours?"

Maggie's eyes narrowed as she scanned my face. Despite the oxygen tube under her nose, the old lady's reply was labored.

"Derek is my grandson and my only remaining relative. He prefers to be called Deek. What kind of mischief has he gotten into now?"

I was afraid I might kill the old lady if I gave her the details of his horrific crime.

"He's been accused of unlawful entry to a home a half-mile away. It's my job to defend him in court."

The old lady managed a half-hearted snort of what I assumed was annoyance.

"Deek's a sweet little boy at heart. He'd never enter anyone's home without asking. I thought you were going to tell me he cut Abagail's roses again. The darling child took my neighbor's flowers to give me a birthday present. I think it was just last year when he turned eight."

The poor lady seemed locked in the past. I wondered if she would last to see another birthday. She reminded me of my aunt during her last year. It didn't seem right to squeeze a helpless old lady for money to defend someone as reprehensible as Derek. I knew she wouldn't be receiving any birthday flowers from her beloved grandson again.

"Maggie, does Derek own a motorcycle?"

She looked puzzled for a moment. Her eyes shifted as she reset her mind to a time when Derek was an adult.

"Yes, dear. I believe it's parked in my garage."

"How long has it been there?"

Maggie looked puzzled. She turned to Clara and said, "Do you remember when Deek came by last?"

"It would have been in early April about the time you lost your pearls."

Clara turned me and said, "Maggie needs to rest."

"One last question. Maggie, do you have a will?"

"Yes, sweetheart. Everything I own goes to my darling grandson."

"Do you mind if I look at Derek's motorcycle on the way out?"

"Suit yourself."

Clara opened the door to the garage for me and turned on the light. The Harley-Davidson Road King was sitting under a tarp next to an old dusty Mercedes-Benz sedan.

Clara said, "I have to get back to Mrs. Grenhouser. It's time for her dinner."

"Clara, just how sick is Maggie?"

"She's got dementia, and cancer has spread throughout her body. I don't think she'll last more than a couple of months. All I can do is make her comfortable. When you're done looking at the motorcycle, I'll show you out."

There was a puddle of oil below the bike, and the odometer read 104k miles. I found the registration with the motorcycle and pocketed the document. Clara showed me out of the house. I took one last look at the ten-million-dollar view. If Deek had held out for a few more months, he would have inherited this gorgeous home. Instead, his drug habit had driven him to murder. The only people who could benefit from his terrible crime would be the lawyers.

The District Attorney was leading the prosecution team. He was running for mayor of Los Angeles and had decided that winning a high-profile murder case would make the election a sure thing. I didn't know the DA, but I'd had an instinctive dislike of the arrogant asshole after seeing him continually in one TV ad after another. I hoped to spoil his run for office while earning a fat fee from Derek.

#

Derek was being held at The Los Angeles County Central Jail, which can accommodate nearly 7000 prisoners and is supposedly one of the largest jails in the world. I arrived early in the morning, dressed in a conservative pants suit. I wore high heels and had my long black hair coiled on top of my head to add height to my petite frame. My attempt to look professional was countered by my slight figure and an innocent face better suited to a sophomore in high school.

The guard sneered when I said I wanted to meet with my client. He laughed when I showed him my ID and said I was representing Mr. Derek Grenhouser.

"Little lady, you're going to love Reek. He's a space cadet who smells like he just shit his pants. We named him Reek after the traitor in Game of Thrones because he stinks and because all the guards want to cut off his private parts. Be careful. He's a spitter."

Derek looked confused, sitting in the private interview room. His stench was overwhelming, and I barely managed to keep my breakfast down by breathing through my mouth. The asshole had the nerve to laugh at me when I said I would be representing him.

The first words out of his mouth were, "I'm innocent. No one would have gotten hurt if they'd just done what I politely asked. It wasn't my fault."

He wasted ten minutes of my young life with his mindless rant.

When he finished, I calmly said, "The District Attorney is pushing for the death sentence. He wants to run for mayor on a platform of being tough against crime. He considers your high-profile case a slam dunk, and he will be leading the prosecution personally."

He rested his head in his hands. "I can't believe they gave me a little girl to defend me against a pro. I'm fucking doomed."

His casual insult helped me make up my mind about an ethical dilemma that had bothered me for days. I decided to do what any self-respecting lawyer would do.

"Deek, I've found a hint of potential weakness in the prosecution's case. If I choose to mount a vigorous defense, it will take a lot of additional time to prepare and possibly get you a reduced sentence. On the other hand, if I follow my office's guidelines, I won't be spending extra time on your case, and you'll be convicted and sentenced to death. Of course, I want to provide effective counsel, but we don't have sufficient resources. The only free time I have available is on nights and weekends. Perhaps there is a way you could make it worth my while to spend my valuable personal time on your case."

It only took a few minutes to get Derek to offer me his big Harley if I tried my best to save him from the death penalty. He also agreed to sign over the deed to his grandmother's house if I managed to get him a sentence that was less than ten years. I felt a momentary pang of guilt for my mercenary behavior, but then I remembered the horrific crime he had committed.

#

I stayed late performing research at the Clara Shortridge Foltz Criminal Justice Center after opening arguments in California versus Derek Grenhouser. This massive old building is named after the woman lawyer who first proposed creating the public defender's office across the United States in 1893. As a result, I consider Clara Foltz to be my role model. No matter how heinous the crime, the Constitution says the accused has the right to effective counsel. However, I'd prefer to be working in corporate law instead of representing the nasty degenerate who was my client. I had volunteered for the role only because I viewed the case as my path into private practice.

I was a recent graduate from UCLA Law School, and this was my first court case. It meant I had to work alone against a team led by the ambitious District Attorney, and I couldn't afford to fail.

I had spent days, nights, and weekends diligently preparing for the trial for the last five months. Judging by the frowns from the team overflowing the prosecutors' table, I had done well in my opening statement. After the court adjourned for the day, I remained behind in the Criminal Justice Center to read transcripts of previous cases tried by my opponent, the DA. I was amused to find he hadn't prosecuted a case in over ten years.

Judging by his performance in court, he was your typical high-powered egotistical male lawyer with an unhealthy dose of misogyny. I have nothing against a certain amount of egotism since the trait is essential when you put yourself on the line in court with all the accompanying attacks. I'll confess to having a fair amount of egotism myself. It was the arrogant condescension shown by the DA that annoyed me.

It was late when I left the library, and I was alone on the elevator. I was surprised when it stopped letting on the DA by himself. The arrogant jerk smiled at me, and I glared back. He outweighed me by a hundred pounds, but what could he do in a public building? His look turned into a sneer, and he hit the stop button between floors.

"Do you remember me, bitch?"

I frowned. Did the DA think I suffered from short-term memory loss? Well, if the fat bastard wanted to play games, I could play along until I learned what he was after.

"You're the District Attorney. Since you're the prosecuting attorney in the Grenhouser case, I don't think we should be talking unless you want to negotiate a plea bargain that we can present to the judge."

The DA laughed. "I'm glad you brought up the idea of a deal. I was having lunch with our trial judge last week at our country club, and he asked if I would offer you a plea bargain. I told my old fraternity brother that I'd taken the little Mexican cunt's virginity a couple of years ago, and I was going to enjoy raping her again in the trial. I hoped he would enjoy watching her lose her virginity as a lawyer. There is no way in hell that I am going to offer you a deal."

The DA had outdone himself. His nasty comments went far beyond arrogance. I suppose he thought calling me Mexican was an insult. He was delusional.

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

"A couple of years ago, my old fraternity invited me to preside over a day of mock trials at UCLA. Afterward, there was a party where a little brown Mexican whore drank way too many tequila shots to celebrate her victory. I followed the drunken bitch to her apartment and fucked the shit out of her. I grabbed some pictures and a video on my phone so that I could masturbate to her naked cum stained body anytime I wanted. Here, take a look. The little bitch might look familiar. I'm pretty sure she was a virgin."

He held up his phone. The display showed the interior of the studio apartment I had taken my second year in law school. That meant the picture was taken sometime after my nineteenth birthday. The only person in the picture I could recognize was me. I was lying stark naked on my back with my legs spread wide open. My eyes were closed, and presumably, I had passed out from one too many shots of tequila.

The image was so revolting, I collapsed against the wall, but the DA wedged a knee between my legs to hold me up. The bastard shoved his phone in my face with a second picture. I couldn't see the face of the white frat boy lying between my brown legs. All I could see was his ass and half of his cock. The missing half was buried in my glistening vagina. I felt a wave of nausea and barely managed to breathe. So, this was the asshole who had raped me and taken my virginity while I was unconscious.

"Don't bother counting the moles on the guy's back. There aren't any pictures of me fucking you, but you can be certain that I was first. After I had my fill, I called a few of the guys from my fraternity to help me pull a train on you. Here, I'm sure that you'll love these."

The DA laughed as he showed me several more. "I saved the best for last. Our fraternity was ordered to recruit a black member to meet our diversity goal. We managed to land the school's star running back. He was 240 pounds of solid muscle and had a big black cock to match."

He displayed a picture with the football player taking me from behind doggy style. His massive black cock was glistening with my juices, and the monster was half-buried in my little pussy. The next photo showed cum oozing out around his black cock. The following picture showed my gaping pink hole leaking cum after the athlete was done. I moaned and tried to squirm free from the DA's grasp. All I managed to do was grind my hot core against his fat knee.